Soar On, Sweet Bird

I don't even know what to say about the strange, abrupt and sad passing of Mark "The Bird" Fidrych, except that it's not a coincidence that the year of his brilliant rookie season also happened to be the year I fell in love with baseball.

Fidrych was like Harpo Marx reincarnated as a pitcher for the Detroit Tigers — he was a clown and a goofball, sure, but he also radiated a cosmic joy that was beautiful to behold, and he could back it up by pitching rings around the best teams in the American League. These days, most pitchers never throw 24 complete games in their entire careers; The Bird threw 24 in a single season, and rarely seemed to break a sweat (or lose his sheer excitement over being in the big leagues in the first place) in the process. And then it was pretty much over, thanks to knee and shoulder injuries; but for one glorious season, he gave Tigers fans — and baseball fans all around the country — something to smile about. As Jim Caple writes in this excellent obit, he was the kind of gate attraction who, whenever and wherever he pitched, could regularly pull in 20-30 thousand over the average fan attendance.

Unlike the late, great Dock Ellis, I never got to see The Bird play in person; but like Ellis, Fidrych was a major inspiration for my baseball book, and for the way I see and live my life in general. And now they're both gone. If I were Dick Allen, Bill Lee or Jim Bouton, I'd definitely start looking twice before crossing the street...